


Vic Fuentes vs. The World

by orphan_account



Category: Pierce the Veil
Genre: M/M, fuenciado - Freeform, kellic - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 07:31:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'M IN THE PROCESS OF REWRITING BC I STARTED THIS IN 8TH GRADE WHEN I DIDN'T KNOW SHIT AND IT'S VERY POORLY PLANNED. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.</p><p>When your life keeps spiraling down, what do you do? Do you close yourself off? Try to pull yourself out? Give up? Well, Vic Fuentes doesn't know what to do, so he keeps going. What happens when he realizes he may not be who he thought he was?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'M IN THE PROCESS OF REWRITING BC I STARTED THIS IN 8TH GRADE WHEN I DIDN'T KNOW SHIT AND IT'S VERY POORLY PLANNED. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

One more fucking thing and I'm quitting.

Sure, tell me I'm a drama queen. But living on a bus with three sweaty, pissed off, whiny men is not all it's cracked up to be. Making the music is one thing, but tolerating each other for months and playing the same songs over and over makes me want to bash my head against a table until my skull splits open and my brain oozes out.

Moving on from that jolly image, what has me so riled up, dear reader?

Tony Perry, that's what. That little shit single-handedly ruined our show and laughed his way through it. He played the wrong riff during King For A Day and didn't even notice until I pointed it out to him once the song was over. The audience laughed, Tony laughed, and I laughed, but I didn't find it funny. And the worst part: I'm the only one who cares. Mike retaliated to my backstage yelling with more yelling. Of course. Defending anyone but me is his favorite activity these days. Tony muttered an apology and sulked away, anger dripping off his face. And Jaime? He ignored me. I walked up to him, spat about Tony's screwup, and you know what he did?

He walked away. Self-righteous pacifist didn't say a word.

The bus is now silent. Mike and I are stewing in our angry juices, but we're on opposite ends of the fight. Tony is probably torn between guilt for his failure and frustration for my reaction. And I'm sure Jaime is nostalgic for the way things used to be. Back when things were okay—good, even.

Yes, I wasn't always such a bitch. Mike and I once shared a brotherly bond. Tony and I were best friends. I was never close to Jaime, but we got along perfectly well. We made music we were proud of and still managed to have fun playing it. So what changed? What could possibly break up the strong connection between us four?

Alea. My ex-girlfriend. The love of my life. We dated in secret for two years. I never told a soul; not Tony, not Jaime, not even Mike. I kept her to myself and flourished in the secrecy. I loved that we had something so exciting. Something so real. We didn't have to go through the motions just to keep up impressions because there were no impressions. We never went out. We never met the parents or the friends. Both of us were content with meeting at her place or mine. And she was beautiful. Unbelievably so, with silky brown hair that hung down to her waist. Her eyes were a warm hazel and dark-lashed. With full lips and curves, she managed to capture my heart.

But it ended, as good things always do for me. She fell in love with another man; one she went out to dinner with, one she went dancing with, one she took home to her parents. At first, I laughed at him because I thought she and I had something better. He'd never live in a world alone with her. But by the time it was too late, I realized something. Alea and I didn't have love. We didn't hide because we were too good for the rest of society. We hid because she was ashamed of me.

One night, about a week after our relationship ended, I got completely shitfaced. I was drunk off my ass, thus it probably wasn't a good idea to drive. But that was the point. I won't lie to you. I wanted to die that night. I had nothing left to live for, so why not? I couldn't tell anybody my heart was broken since no one knew someone got close enough to break it.

I was alone.

I was alone and ready to die.

So I stumbled out of my apartment and threw myself into the shitty Mazda I inherited when my uncle upgraded. Somehow, I managed to pull out of the lot and onto the road. I didn't think I was going anywhere in particular, but I later found out otherwise.

A pair of headlights greeted me in the dark.

"Sorry," I slurred, addressing whoever I was about to collide with. A sloppy grin found its way to my face as I floored the pedal and swerved into the left lane. I was met with a satisfying crunch before I blacked out.

Now, my intention was to die on impact, but I woke to a blinding white, and it had nothing to do with the famous light at the end of the tunnel. This white was hospital white. And as my eyes cracked open, I began to hear a familiar steady beeping sound.

"Hi," said an overly-chipper nurse, rather loudly, leaning too close for comfort. "I see you're awake. My name is Marie. You're in the hospital."

I groaned. "What happened?"

Marie clicked her tongue. "Somebody was drunk," she scolded. "This out to teach you n—"

"No," I interrupted. "Why am I still alive? I was supposed to die."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "Um, you suffered from a concussion, blood loss, bruising, and miraculously, no broken bones. You're very much alive."

My jaw dropped as anger flooded through me. It was supposed to be over. I wasn't supposed to be here. I should be dead. Why...how...?!

"Now," Marie said more softly. "I understand that you aren't in the best condition, so you can get some rest and I'll come back later so we can discuss potential lawsuits."

My eyes widened as she turned to leave the room. "Wait, did you say lawsuits?"

Sighing, she spun back around. "I shouldn't drop this on you now, but I suppose you have a right to know."

I narrowed my eyes. "What?"

"You hit another car. There was a man and a woman inside. The woman...she, um, didn't make it."

Dread pooled in my stomach. If I had regrets about my suicide method before, they were off the charts now. I didn't just survive. I killed someone in my place.

Oh my god.

Vic Fuentes is a killer.

Marie must have seen the grief that came over my face because she coughed nervously and inched toward the door.

"Like I said, I shouldn't have dropped this on you now. Anyway, your brother is right outside the door. I'll talk to him real quick and then he'll come in to visit you."

Without waiting for a response, she left the room. Through the gap between the door and the wall, I heard Mike's deep voice talking to the nurse. The only words I caught were 'impact,' 'bruises,' and 'suicide' before my brother burst into the room.

"Oh my god, I'm going to fucking kill you," he growled. I winced. "You tried to kill yourself? How could you be so selfish, Vic? Goddammit, did you ever think that there might be people who care about you? You're in a fucking band. You make music. Think of the fans! Fuck, Vic, I swear, you jumped at an opportunity to commit suicide out of the blue. No goddamn warning. Good thing you survived or else you wouldn't be here for me to rip your fucking throat out!"

I could've told him about Alea, but I didn't. I could've showed him the cuts on my arm that found their way there after we broke up, but I didn't. I could've done a lot of things, but I didn't do any of them. None of it mattered. He wouldn't understand my love for Alea. The self-inflicted gashes were disguised by all the cuts I received during the car crash. No matter how bad I could make something look or sound, it was always worse on the inside.

So I held my tongue. I sat there while Mike screamed at me, and I took it. I listened to every damn word he said, offering nothing in response but a look caught between guilt and scorn. I let him yell until he was red in the face and tears dotted his cheeks. And finally, he sat down and cried while he told me how much he loved me. And before the crash, I probably would've cried and apologized for scaring him. But something in me changed that night. I couldn't cry. I didn't want to. I knew it wouldn't do any good. I had killed someone. The world was dark, and I'd caught a glimpse of how dark it could be. Tears wouldn't change anything.

Eventually, Mike stood and wiped his cheeks with his arm.

"I never cry, man. You won’t see that again. And don’t fucking try to commit. Ever. I’ll kill you." He gave a weak smile. Before the crash, I probably would've been both amused and offended. But I felt nothing. "I'll go get Tony and Jaime. Stay here."

Like I could go anywhere.

That, little did I know, was the last time I stayed silent while Mike yelled at me. Since then, we've always had screaming matches, and I never admit defeat. I'm ruthless and intolerant.

But back to the hospital.

Tony and Jaime burst into the room. Tony looked frantic, as if I would explode if he didn't keep an eye on me. Jaime just looked sort of shocked. I didn't expect much of a reaction from him, of course. Our bond was purely musical. Strictly business, if you will.

Tony on the other hand....

"Fuck you," he breathed, racing up to me and ignoring my poor medical state as he pulled me into a bone-crushing hug.

"Ow," I groaned. "I'm injured."

"I don't care. I hate you."

He squeezed me tighter and sighed.

"Tony. Get off."

"Not until you promise you'll never try to kill yourself again."

"Fine. I promise."

"Good." He pulled back and slid a chair up by the hospital bed. Jaime didn't move; he was just standing an awkward four feet behind. He still seemed to be relatively shocked as he stared at me wide-eyed.

"So," Tony said, closing his eyes. "Why'd you do it?"

I pursed my lips. I couldn't tell him the real reason. It's just a girl, Vic, he'd say. I couldn't make him understand how much pain I felt. Nobody would understand.

"Alcohol," I shrugged. "Buried depression maybe."

Tony exhaled through his nose. "You seemed so happy, though. Were you really depressed?"

I bit my lip and shrugged again.

"I'm so sorry, Vic." He paused to give me an awkward pat on the shoulder. "It'll get better."

With that, he stood and left the room, Jaime trailing behind.

And maybe it could've gotten better. It should've. After all, it was just a girl. But it didn't. Not after I heard the name of the woman I killed. 

"Alea Richardson," the nurse told me after I woke up the next morning. My face paled and my blood ran cold.

Alea.

No. 

That had to be some sort of joke. Some sick method to get me to stop drinking. Alea couldn't be dead. She was young. Beautiful. It wouldn't be fair. If I survived, she had too.

But the nurse wasn't joking. No matter how much I prodded, talked, and laughed, her story remained the same. Alea was dead. She hit her head on the dashboard. Head wound. The paramedics couldn't get to her in time. The nurse was very sorry.

It took me about an hour to believe it. Then, I sat alone in the starch-white hospital room, scratching my arms until all of the cuts split open again. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. But my voice wouldn't come out and neither would my tears.

Things could've been okay. They could've been okay if I had killed anyone else. But I hadn't. I killed Alea. And the second that set in, everything changed.

Within a week, Tony and I weren't friends anymore, Mike and I fought all the time, and Jaime and I were even more distant. I was on suicide watch and they all thought I was an alcoholic. I stopped drinking, but of course I still wanted to die. I would've tried again if it weren't for my promise to Tony. I may be an asshole, but I'm not a liar.

I figured my relationships with my band members would be fixed eventually. A couple of months, maybe. A year at the most. But two years have passed and I still hate everyone. I'm less broken up about Alea, but that's it. I fight with Mike all the time. I'm always pissed at Tony. Jaime and I hardly speak.

My name is Vic Fuentes, and I'm a fuckup.


	2. Chapter 2

Sunlight filters through the curtain separating my bunk from the rest of the bus. I groan, roll over, and bury my face in the pillow. But I can’t fall back to sleep. My bandmates are already shuffling around the kitchen and the noise keeps me conscious.

I was having a decent dream, too. Something about Megan Fox and a raincoat. Though I wish I could pick up where I left off, I pull back the curtain and slump into the bathroom.

I roll up the sleeves of my sweatshirt and study my scars. They aren’t as bad as they used to be. I haven’t cut in about a year. Haven’t had a real reason to. I only did it before for Alea. It was my way of saying sorry. But I don’t really care anymore. I’ve apologized enough.

My gaze drags from the pale cuts to the watch on my wrist. It’s nearly noon. I was up late writing a new song. I didn’t have help like I used to. I have to work alone. What I come up with is usually pretty good, though, so it’s not like I care.

We have a show in Vegas tonight. Unfortunately, the tour just started so we’ll be going all the way around the country before we can get home. We started in San Diego and we’ll end with Portland, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. There are 23 other shows between those, so I’ll have to fucking work if I want to make it without killing somebody.

After pushing myself through a quick shit, I pull on a pair of boxers hanging on the towel rack and walk out to the front of the bus. Mike, Tony and Jaime are eating cereal at the table. My brother pretends we didn’t fight last night and nods at me. Tony seems to have forgiven me as he offers a tight smile. Jaime, as per usual, does nothing.

They’re being relatively civil toward me, so I decide to play nice and sit down to eat with them.

“We’ll get to the venue in ten minutes, Vic,” Mike informs me. “Once you’re done eating, I suggest you get dressed.”

Upon looking around the table, I find that I am indeed the only one not ready to go. I grunt a response and pour cereal into the bowl. I finish within a few minutes.

I’m the first one done despite being the last to arrive, so I dig through my suitcase, looking for somewhat clean clothes to wear. I’ve made a mess of my bunk; nothing seems to match. Huffing, I stand up and turn aro—

“Jesus!” I cry.

Jaime is standing obnoxiously close to me, staring at my hips. I raise an eyebrow.

“See anything you like?”

Jaime coughs. “Those are my boxers.”

“So?”

“Um, can I have them back?”

“Why? I’m wearing them.”

“Don’t you have your own?”

I sigh in exasperation. “Fine, you want them so bad? Take them.” I pull them done and take them off. Jaime snatches them from me and marches away.

“Pissy, pissy,” I mutter. Miraculously, a matching pair of pants and a shirt catch my eye. I pull on the nearest pair of boxers and put on the clothes. I’m lacing up my red vans by the time the bus is pulling into the venue lot.

“Ready, Vic?” Mike calls out.

“Yes, mother,” I reply. I run a brush through my hair and race off the bus, then blink through the bright sunshine and follow my brother inside.

Jaime seems to be walking as far away from me as possible. Understandable. I guess I pissed him off. That would be the first time in awhile. Usually he just stays out of my way to be nice. Now, he’s avoiding me because he’s mad. It’s kind of a refreshing change.

An hour until showtime, I’m sitting with Kellin Quinn from Sleeping With Sirens. We don’t talk much, but I like him well enough. Kellin has shaggy, dark hair and wide, pale blue eyes. He reminds me of a little kid; even his voice is high. Maybe that’s why I like him. He’s too innocent to be a problem.

"Why are you staring at me?” Kellin asks, not looking up from his notebook. My eyes dart to the wall behind his head.

“I’m not staring.”

“Yeah, nice try. You totally were.”

I sigh. “Just wondering why I can stand you.”

The left corner of Kellin’s mouth quirks up into a half-grin. “What, is there something wrong with me?”

“No, I just don’t generally like people,” I reply bluntly. Kellin laughs. I ask, “What?”

“Well, if you don’t like people, why’d you choose to be in a band? The singer, no less? I mean, you have to be around people all the time. You have to live on a bus with them for months. You have to perform for thousands of them. You have to do interviews and meet and greets. That can’t be much fun for you.”

“It’s not that bad,” I lie. Kellin rolls his eyes.

“Yes it is. I know what it’s like to be shy, Vi—“

“Oh, I am not shy,” I spit, harder than I intended. “I mean, uh,” I cough to disguise the malice that coated my voice seconds ago. “I’m comfortable with people. I just don’t like them.”

Kellin lets my moment of hostility slide. “Being miserable can’t be comfortable.”

“Maybe I’m not miserable. Maybe I’m just arrogant.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I hardly know you. I’m certainly not one to judge.”

 _You got that right_ , I think, resuming scribbling in my lyrics book. Just then, Jaime enters the room and sits next to me. I don’t look up.

“What, ready to kiss and make up?” I quip. “Or are you still mad at me?”

“When was I mad at you? You didn’t do anything.”

“I thought I stole your majesty’s precious boxers. Or have you already forgotten?”

Kellin stifles a giggle as Jaime rolls his eyes.

“Um, it’s just a pair of fucking boxers. I was out.”

“Okay, then why are you here?”

“One of the roadies wants you. Jackson.”

“What for?”

Jaime sighs. “I don’t know, Vic. Go ask him.”

I stand and expect Jaime to follow me, but he doesn’t.

“Sup, Kells,” he says as I leave. I bite back a scoff and cross the doorway. I thought I had an ally in Kellin, but maybe not since he’s so buddy-buddy with my bassist. Oh well. I’ll go scout out Justin. If Kells wants to hang out with my bassist, I’ll hang out with his.

The roadie wants me to test my guitar again; he says one of the security guards smashed into it and he isn’t sure if it would sound the way I want it. I comply and it sounds fine. I bid Jackson goodbye before peering in doors to find Justin. Finally, I see him curled up on a couch in one of the dressing rooms, texting.

“Hey,” I say, inviting myself in. Justin looks up, raises an eyebrow, and looks back to his phone.

“What do you want, princess?” he asks. I stop myself from rolling my eyes and reply.

“I’m just bored. Can’t I talk to you?”

I sit on the couch.

“Well, sure,” Justin shrugs. “I just didn’t think you liked me all that much.”

I laugh dryly. “What makes you think that?”

“Never mind,” he breathes. “Excited for the show?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “I’m pumped.”

My lie must not have been very convincing because Justin chuckles and says, “You don’t look very pumped. You look a little tired.”

“I guess I am,” I sigh. “And you?”

“Pre-show jitters.”

“Who are you texting?”

“My mom,” he admits with a wry grin. “She’s wishing me good luck.”

“That’s nice.”

The room falls into an awkward silence then. I seem to have lost my people skills, which I suppose is viable since I became a bit of an antisocial bitch after the accident. I haven’t had to deal with silence like this, much, though.

Justin coughs. The clock ticks. He stops texting. I look anywhere but him, but I can feel his eyes on me. Eventually, I shift my gaze to meet his. He doesn’t look away.

“Why are you staring at me?” I laugh nervously. This is like what happened earlier with Kellin.

“There’s a fly in your hair,” he says flatly, still never breaking his gaze. But he’s not looking at my hair. He’s looking at my eyes.

“Um, okay,” I say apprehensively. I sort of shake my head to humor him but I know there’s no fly.

Something seriously fucked up is going on.

The door opens then, saving me from potentially being murdered. Gabe asks for Justin to come help him with something and I’m left alone.

Until showtime, I lay on the couch and try to sleep, but the image of Justin’s eyes boring into me is burned into my brain, accompanied with an eerie feeling I don’t recognize. By the time Mike comes looking for me, I’m pacing the room.

“Vic,” he says. “We’re on in five.”

“Thank god,” I breathe. I need a distraction. Mike looks confused; I’m never excited to perform, but he doesn’t question it.

After the usual pep talk from the managers and crew, and our devil-is-everywhere routine, the four of us are pushed onstage and smile through the screaming of the fans. I bang my head while Tony plays the opening riff for The New National Anthem.

“What the fuck is _up_ , Vegas?!" I scream. The crowd goes wild, as they always do. It's a pretty high-energy show.

All in all, the show is a success. I manage to keep up my façade throughout the whole set. Finally, we’re onto our last song: King For A Day. Kellin comes out once the guitar starts. We sing and scream together, and Tony makes sure he plays the correct riff this time, throwing in a smirk toward me with pride.

The song finishes and the audience goes crazy. Kellin and I exchange some banter and then me, Tony, Mike and Jaime trade places with the rest of Sleeping With Sirens.

“Nice job,” Mike mutters hostilely to me before turning away and defiantly looking toward the stage. Well, someone is PMSing. I did nothing wrong, yet he’s giving me the cold shoulder. Okay then.

My band stays next to the stage while the Sirens play, but I’ve had enough of them, so I scope out an empty dressing room. The weirdness from earlier has been blurred from my mind due to the buzz of performing (I may hate it but it’s good for forgetting things). I flop down on a couch and instantly fall asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Parties have never really been my thing.

Even before I became an asshole, I didn’t like them. It’s strange. I like noise. I like drinking. I like dancing. I like flirting. I like crazy lights and loud music. But add them all together and you’ve got a party and an unhappy Vic Fuentes.

I feel I owe it to Kellin to go, though, since he’s nice to me. I have forgotten all about my betrayal when I found out he and Jaime are closer than him and me. It’s covered up by the concert, my nap, and especially the weirdness with Justin. Kellin is forgiven, and I have a party to go to.

Mike, Tony and Jaime are surprised when I say I’m going. They get a little too excited, though, and I don’t want to drive with them so I tell them I’m walking.

Everyone should show up around midnight, so I leave the venue as late as I can. By 11:30, all the lights are off and the owner is telling me I need to leave. I grab my coat and exit the building.

Bright lights greet me when I walk outside. I would hate to live in Vegas. The lights would keep me awake forever. Besides, every building is full of cigarette smoke and the stench of booze. I wouldn’t mind the women, but it would probably be pretty easy to get mugged. Besides, how do you tell who’s a hooker and who’s free game?

With my hands in my pockets, I walk down the strip. The party is at the other end, so it’ll take me awhile to get there even if I walk fast, but I take my time anyway. No one will miss me if I show up an hour or two late.

Dodging drunk douchebags and scammers, I make my way down the street. I finally arrive just after 1AM. I tell the bouncer my name and I’m allowed inside.

The party is loud, but not obnoxiously so. That’s the nice thing about exclusive parties like this: they aren’t crazy like frat gigs. Still, it’s packed. I don’t see anyone I know. The crowd sucks me in and I’m pushed to the bar. I’m about to order a drink when I hear a voice behind me.

“Vic, hey, baby,” someone giggles. I turn around.

Oh.

Justin.

He called me baby.

Okay.

“Hi, Justin,” I say, taking a tentative step backward. “What’s up?”

“I’m smashed, bro,” he laughs. “Super smashed. Super smash brothers.” He stumbles and I catch him.

“Whoah, whoah, let’s sit down, alright?”

I look around. The barstools are too high; Justin might fall off. I drag him through the crowd instead and find a table.

“No,” he whines. “Dance with me, Vic.”

“Later. You’re too drunk right now.”

That seems to satisfy him as a sloppy grin stretches onto his face. We sit down and I let go of his arm.

“You’re preeeetty,” he slurs. “Like a girl. You have really girly hair.”

“What, should I cut it?” I hiss.

“No, no, no,” Justin assures me. “I like girls. And boys. Which means you are extra speeeeee-ciaaaaal.”

Well. That explains the staring. Goddammit, Justin Hills has a fucking crush on me. I’d rather be murdered than have to deal with this.

“Um,” I laugh. “Listen, buddy. I don’t think I have what you’re looking for.”

“Yes you do,” he protests. “You can sing and stuff. Play guitar. And you smell nice. And—“

“Justin,” I interject, cutting him off before he can continue. “I like girls. Just girls. Okay?”

A look of confusion crosses his face.

“No. You like boys too. You like Kellin.”

I laugh. “What?”

“Kellin said. He said you look at him with dreamy eyes or some shit like that.” He stumbles over his words at the end, but I hardly notice.

“Kellin said what?” I growl. Justin begins to repeat himself, but I’m not listening. Instead, I stand and search the crowd. I spot Kellin near the wall opposite the bar. I march over there, my fanboy trailing behind me.

“Hey, Vic,” Kellin smiles warmly. “Drink?” He holds up an extra beer. I narrow my eyes.

“Excuse you.”

Kellin’s eyebrows furrow. “What?”

“I think you know, Kellin. Tell me, what exactly have you been telling your band members?”

His confused expression remains on his face.

“Don’t play dumb. I’m talking about my ‘crush’ on you,” I spit, putting air quotes around the word ‘crush.’

Kellin laughs nervously. “You, um, don’t want people to know? I’m sorry, Vic. I—“

“Don’t want people to know? Are you kidding? I’m straight, Kellin! What would even give you the idea I might swing that way? God!”

His expression darkens as soon as I’m done talking. I raise an eyebrow expectantly, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he picks up his beer from the table and disappears into the mass of bodies.

“What the fuck,” I whisper.

Justin is still standing there, eyes wide and impressively focused for a drunk man.

“You hurt his feelings, Vic,” he slurs sadly. “Go say sorry. Kiss and make up.”

I wince at his word choice.

“No, he’s the one who should be apologizing. Spreading ridiculous rumors about me. God, this is what I get for trying to make a friend. One goddamn friend.”

Justin slings an arm around my shoulder in sympathy, but I push him off.

“Don’t be sad, Vic,” he coos.

“I’m not sad! I’m fucking angry!” I yell. Thankfully, the party is already loud so no attention is drawn to me. “I’ve been completely alone for two goddamn years! I thought I finally found a person I like, but turns out his ego is so big he thinks I have the hots for him!”

Justin mumbles something.

“What?” I snap.

“It’s not about his ego.”

“Then what the hell is it about?”

He sighs. “I like you, Vic. You’re special,” he smiles.

“I know, Justin, god, I just want to know—“

“Shh, Vic. You talk too much,” he giggles. “Let me finish. I was going to tell you something.”

“Well?”

“Kellin likes you too.”

My face pales. Kellin too…?! Fuck. Is that whole damn band gay for me?!

Justin must sense my panic because he says, “Don’t worry, Kellin’s great. He’s nice, and pretty, like you.”

“Isn’t he fucking married?” I manage to get out.

“How did you know about him and married?” he says, feigning shock, then laughs at his own joke. “Kidding.” He giggles. “Yes, he loves Katelynne. And Copeland. He just gets lonely on tour. Low self esteem and shit. Poor baby.” Justin pouts and waits for a response. I don’t have much to offer, though.

“You know,” I say after awhile. “You’re a girly drunk.”

“I’ve been told,” he says proudly. “Hey, you like girls. Since I’m acting like one, will you dance with me?”

I groan, but I can’t resist his puppy dog eyes. I mutter an agreement and Justin practically squeals with delight as he pulls me to the dancing crowd and begins to shake his hips. God, I have been getting way out of my comfort zone lately. Still, I ignore the fact that I’m dancing with a man and move to the god-awful dance music. We manage to pass a good chunk of time dancing together. Justin even stays a comfortable six inches away from me most of the time.

Eventually, his eyelids begin to droop. I suppose being as drunk as him would tire a person out. I pull him to a table and we sit. I haven’t had a single drop of alcohol that night, but I’m sweaty and high off dancing. My brain buzzes.

Justin is gripping my hand, and if I was in my right mind, I’d pull away, but I don’t. Instead, I grin at him and rub circles over his thumb.

“You’re great,” I laugh. “You’re a good dancer.”

“I know,” slurs Justin. His words are becoming harder and harder to decipher. He needs sleep, but I’m too dizzy to care. I feel genuinely good. I want to keep having fun with Justin.

Justin won’t be fun for much longer, though. He groans suddenly.

“My tummy hurts.”

“Shit.”

I jump up and drag him to the bathroom about ten feet away. I barely cram him into a stall before he’s heaving into the toilet.

“Ow,” he grunts before spewing his guts again. I’m unsure of what to do. Were he a girl, I’d pull his hair back. But no matter how much he may giggle when he’s drunk, Justin Hills has a dick. So instead of holding his hair back, I just sort of pat him on the shoulder.

“Let it all out, buddy.”

“It’s—“

He’s interrupted by a fresh stream of vomit pouring out of his mouth. He gags a few times, then pants.

“Done?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He seems to have sobered up a little bit. Or maybe he’s just too tired to seem drunk.

“Um, need anything?” I cough awkwardly. He flushes the toilet and crawls out of the stall, then slumps down by the wall next to the urinals.

“Just, um, sit with me.”

I comply despite myself. I sit about a foot away from him, but he drapes himself over my shoulder anyway and closes his eyes.

“Sorry,” he breathes. I quirk an eyebrow.

“For what?”

“For being annoying and shit. I’m a terrible drunk.”

I grin. “Hey, it’s okay. I had fun. I never have fun. Don’t feel bad.”

I wait for Justin’s reply, but it doesn’t come. When I look down at him, he’s asleep.

I want to stand up then and rejoin the party. Not to look for more fun, but to escape the situation I’m in. I’m fine with Justin being passed out on my shoulder—okay, I’m a little freaked out—but I mostly want to escape being alone with my thoughts. I got past the depression, the arrogance. I let myself go. But that won’t last if I’m thinking.

Before I have the chance to panic, the bathroom door opens. A drunk Kellin and Jaime stumble in, laughing. Again, ouch, Kellin. Picking him over me. But whatever. I’m not exactly a pocketful of sunshine. I should expect to be let down with a personality like mine.

Upon seeing me, they fall silent. Jaime strides right past and unzips his pants to take a piss. Kellin, on the other hand, pretends he isn’t looking, but being drunk, it’s obvious. I avoid eye contact; wouldn’t want him thinking I have a crush on him, now, would we? Jaime finishes up and grabs Kellin’s arm to pull him out of the bathroom, but Kellin says,

“I’ll meet you outside, Himes.” Jaime raises an eyebrow, but nods. Once he leaves the bathroom, Kellin folds his arms.

“Straight, my ass,” he huffs. “What is it, then, partial to bass players?”

I scoff. “What?”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t act all innocent. He’s right there.”

“What are you talking about, Quinn?” I snap.

“Justin fucking cuddling you! Dancing with you all night! You like dick. Okay. Why lie to me?”

“Excuse me?” I roar. “Justin’s my friend! He fell asleep on me after puking his guts out. You’re accusing me of being gay because of that? Well, sorry to burst your fucking bubble, but I like pussy! Fuck off!”

Kellin laughs coldly and flips the hair out of his eyes. “Alright. Let’s say that’s true. Explain Jaime then.”

“Jaime? What does Jaime have to do with this?”

“Oh, come on! You know exactly what I’m talking about!”

“No I fucking don’t!”

He throws his hands up in exasperation. “Never mind, then! Sorry that I’m not good enough for you!”

Kellin storms out of the bathroom, leaving me pissed off and confused. What a fucking girl. Justin, Jaime, Kellin…none of it makes sense. The more I think about it, the angrier I get.

“I need some air,” I mutter to nobody, propping Justin up against the wall before pushing my way out of the bathroom and out the front door.


	4. Chapter 4

Another thing about parties: no matter how little I drink, I always feel hungover the next day. It’s a curse. Something about the atmosphere. It’s like I get drunk off the experience. Very fucking annoying, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

Luckily, we’re just driving the next day. I’m awoken briefly at 10AM when the driver starts pulling onto the road, but I’m asleep again within thirty seconds. I don’t dream. The last thing I hear his a still-drunk Tony giggling alone in his bunk.

I’m awake again by 1PM with a throbbing headache.  _Didn’t drink a goddamn thing,_  I groan inwardly.  _This isn’t fair_.

Mike and Jaime are whining in their bunks about their hangovers, bribing each other to get up and get food. At least I’m not the only one suffering. Tony is snoring above me. When he wakes up, he’ll be miserable too.

I roll out of bed and trudge to the kitchen.

“Who’s that?” Mike calls.

“Me,” I reply, voice raspy.

“Bring me a box of cereal,” he demands.

I roll my eyes. “Get it your fucking self.”

Mike curses and remains in bed. I open the cupboard and grab the bag of bread before crawling back into my bunk. Jaime and my brother are still arguing.

“Shut the hell up,” I groan.

“Stop bitching,” Mike snaps in return.

“You’re one to talk!”

“God, Vic, just shut your fucking mouth.”

I throw open the curtain and chuck a shoe at him. “Not until you shut yours.”

Mike shrieks, falls out of bed, and lands on the floor with a heavy thud. Ouch. Top bunk. Well, he deserves it.

“Fuck you, Vic!” he exclaims before stomping into the bathroom.

“Anytime,” I mutter. I shovel bread into my mouth until half of the loaf is gone and my stomach is stuffed to the limits. If someone were to poke my stomach, I’d probably vomit. I should’ve stopped at five or six pieces.

Just as Mike leaves the bathroom, the bus lurches over a rough patch of road. Of course, I feel myself starting to gag. I scramble into the bathroom, throw back the toilet lid and choke into the bowl. Nothing comes out after about six tries, but then the familiar taste of bile rises in my throat and I spew my breakfast into the toilet. I jump as a pair of hands pull my hair back, but I’m too busy puking to protest. After heaving four more times I vomit again and then I know I’m done.

“Fuck,” I groan, grabbing a towel from the floor and wiping my mouth. I turn around to see Jaime crouching behind me. “I’m never eating bread again.”

Jaime sighs sympathetically and rubs my back. Were I not exhausted from puking my guts out, I’d shrug him off. It’s weird that he’s being so nice. I wouldn’t exactly do the same for him, and I wouldn’t expect him to hold my hair and rub my fucking back.

“Why are you being so gay?” I breathe. Jaime laughs.

“What? What am I doing?”

“Helping me puke. I’m a grown man; I can take care of myself.”

Jaime shrugs. “I felt bad ‘cause Kellin pissed you off. Thought somebody needed to cut you a little slack.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Okay, I guess.”

“Want me to help you back to bed?”

“S-sure,” I stutter. I’m completely caught off guard by this kindness. I haven’t experienced much since before the crash.

Jaime lifts me up by slinging his arms under my armpits and wraps an arm around my shoulders to steady me while we stumble back to the bunk area. Thank god I’m a bottom bunk. I crawl back into bed. Jaime leaves and returns a moment later with a mixing bowl (why the fuck do we need those on the bus? Are we going to make some goddamned chocolate chip cookies or something? No. We’re in our twenties and we’re men).

“In case you throw up again,” he explains. “So you don’t have to get up.”

“Um, thanks,” I offer. He smiles sympathetically and climbs back into his bunk.

“What are you, his mom?” Mike calls. “Damn, Jaime!”

No one says anything. Jaime chuckles almost inaudibly and I roll my eyes.

 

* * *

 

Somehow, I fall asleep again. I don’t wake up until the sky is dark and the bus is pulling into a lot for the night. When my eyes flutter open, Mike is pulling himself up to his bunk armed with a plate of nachos and a bottle of Tylenol. I can hear snores coming from both Jaime and Tony.

It seems my I-never-got-drunk hangover has passed. Just in time. I work better during the night hours.

After checking my phone (no messages or calls, as usual), I grab the beat-up acoustic guitar we keep on the bus and my notebook and tiptoe to the front lounge. Mike mutters some threat about me keeping quiet, but I’m not paying much attention.

My stomach growls. I debate checking the fridge for a snack, but then I remember the bread incident from earlier and my appetite is lost. Instead, I pad over to the squeaky couch and sit down.

I read over my lyrics a few times to see if I can scrounge up any new ideas. Nothing comes, though. I purse my lips and murmur them under my breath, testing out different rhythms. The words just aren’t coming naturally tonight. Maybe my brain needs to be active a little longer. I try out a few chords on the guitar, not bothering to play quietly for Mike. His I-actually-got-drunk hangover is not my problem. None of the chords seem to fit right, though.

Damn.

I sigh and lean back on the couch. It creaks in protest.

I’m not writing this song about anything in particular. Sometimes, I’ll write about fans I talk to. That’s one of the rare good things about the music industry. You aren’t stuck trying to hear a good story in some small town for inspiration. You can just walk down the street in any city and eventually, someone with a story to tell will recognize you.

I don’t have any stories to write about now. I don’t have much of  _anything_  to write about now. The first line is just something I thought of while I was taking a shower back home. Everything else just comes from various places. Maybe I was driving to the grocery store. Maybe I was at the bar. Maybe I was trying to fall asleep. But everything was just all shoved into one song. It’s a junkyard. A junkyard that only has a verse and half of a chorus.

I sigh and write ‘junkyard’ across the top of it in bold letters. I know I still probably won’t do much with the song, but it’s satisfying to know it at least has a fitting title.

Alea pops into my head then. Of course. The skeleton in my closet. In every single song I’ve ever written, she’s played a part. It’s not always a big one. I might write about something else entirely and just reference something she said in a line or two. But I’ve written my fair share of songs directly about her. There always seems to be a lot to say. I always think of things I wish I could tell her or things I wish I could watch her do. It never stops. I’m infinitely sorry.

Before I realize it, I’m writing something on the page. It’s what she said to me the time I suggested we play hide and seek in her spacious flat. She had giggled and teased me about how childish I could be. “I know,” I had said, so I write that for the beginning of the next line. But because of the nature of my songwriting, I bend the rest of the line out of shape and end it in a cruel analogy.

The words are flowing now. I’m thinking of everything at once. Politics. Media. My childhood. Fucking grocery stores. Everything I’ve ever thought about leaks onto the page and I can’t stop it. I guess that makes Alea my songwriting drug. God, I don’t need to get drunk to have a hangover and I don’t need inspiration to get creative.

There’s something fucked up about me.

I don’t have time to think about that now, though. I’m reading the whole song at once and writing the whole song at once. It’s like I puked ink onto the paper and now there’s a song in front of me. I manage to scribble a few more lines before I feel relatively satisfied with the length. I read it again, this time much more slowly. It all clashes and yet it all fits together. The ending seems like it wraps it all up.

A fucking miracle: I wrote almost an entire song in approximately two minutes.

Pleased with myself I cross my legs and pull the guitar onto my lap. I test a few chords, but it never fits the way I want it to. I decide to tackle that another night. It’s not ideal, but at this rate, I could still finish quite a few songs over the span of the tour.

My hand is throbbing. I must have been gripping the pen pretty hard. Having a songwriting possession can do that to a person. I shake it off and rest my head on the seat of the couch. I’m asleep within ten minutes.


	5. Chapter 5

hi guys. this isn't a real chapter, but i still have something important to say. archiveofourown is BLOCKED on my computer. my mom was like "blahbalbhalh fanfiction blajskdlf" and she blocked it. so i'll be posting anything i write to ptv-etc.tumblr.com until further notice. sorry :/


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